


Before I Wake

by Raelynn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Series 3 compliant, Sherlock is lonely, Song fic, The Great Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raelynn/pseuds/Raelynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I was driving through the dark and the rain last night, and this song came up on shuffle, and I was hit by a thousand Sherlolly feels.  It'll take us through Sherlock's return to London and afterwards, so don't despair.  I sometimes think about writing sad fics, but I always chicken out and have to bring them around to a happy ending. ;)  Looking at four chapters, but who knows.</p>
<p>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmQRVlTLffM</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The wind howled outside, the snow coming down in wet sheets as if it were as angry as Sherlock felt at that moment.  He sat in the small room in the abandoned building, huddled under a too-thin blanket.  The mirror on the wall was shattered, in pieces on the floor.  Sherlock had caught a glimpse of himself earlier that day, and punched it in anger.

His beautiful hair hung in greasy, limp curls almost to his shoulder.  His normally thin frame was gaunt and emaciated. The clothes he wore hadn’t been washed in a month, and Sherlock felt lower than he’d felt in months.

Faking his suicide to go after Moriarty’s network had been the right decision.  He knew that, deep inside.  But giving up the creature comforts of his London flat, his expensive Saville Row suits, and more importantly, his friends and family was beginning to take a toll on him.  

He’d had sporadic contact with Mycroft, but it was always about the mission, never about him, or John Watson, or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade, whom he’d grown to love like the older brother he should have had. He could scarcely believe it was the people he missed the most, but little by little, day by day, he’d begun to realize how true it was.

Christmas and his birthday had come and gone, unremarked upon just like last Christmas, and his last birthday.  Sherlock swore that it would not happen again.  By this December, he’d be back in his flat with John, solving crimes and wishing for something more exciting.

 

Except after a year and a half of “more exciting”, sometimes he longed for the dull monotony of a six.  Maybe even a four.

He sat and listened to the wind for a few more moments, letting his mind drift to happier days.  There was nothing he could do until morning, when he would face down the ring leader of this particular branch of the network.  He was safe, his plans were set.  Now he was just killing time.

He closed his eyes and sighed, wishing for a cigarette for the tenth time that day.  He roamed his mind palace, opening doors and peeking in.  The sound of his violin.  The taste of Mrs. Hudson’s amazing pies. The scent of Molly Hooper’s shampoo.

Molly Hooper.  Sherlock opened his eyes and shook his head.  That was the last place his mind needed to go.  Three days, hidden at her flat as Mycroft made plans to get him out of the country.  Three days of crap telly, eating her out of house and home, planted on her sofa waiting for her to get home from work and tell him about what was going on.  Watching the news reports of his suicide.  The suicide of the Fake Detective.  

Molly had been there for him, quietly visiting charity shops for clothing for him, clothing he’d never wear on his own but which were necessary for his new life.  Baking him brownies, which she knew he loved, and smiling sadly at him when his mind drifted and she couldn’t get through to him.  Molly, who mattered the most, who really saw him.  And then in the middle of the night, he’d received the word from Mycroft, and he’d left her with just two words scribbled on the back of an envelope.

 

_“Thank you.”_

 

He’d had far too much time to think of Molly Hooper in the last few weeks, and as time went by he was slowly able to admit to himself that Lestrade and John and Mrs. Hudson were not the only people he’d grown to love during the last few years in London.

 

Rummaging around in the small bag he kept with him, he pulled out a pen and a crumpled up computer print out.  Verifying that there was nothing on it that would give away his location or identity, he flipped it over onto the blank side and began to write, his scrawling handwriting even worse due to the cold and his current physical state.

 

_Molly,_

_I shouldn’t be writing this - and with that, you know exactly who it’s from.  Keep this hidden. Burn it, really. I shouldn’t be writing this but I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, whether or not I will survive what I need to do.  I’ve been out here for so long, and I’m so alone and tonight - tonight I’m scared, and you’re the only person on the planet I feel like I could admit that to._

_ I did wrong by you, Molly Hooper.  I pretended not to notice you, I pretended that your attempts to get my attention failed.  I didn’t know what to do or how to feel and I learned a long time ago that caring about people just meant hurting when they left. _

_ But that’s what I did to you, isn’t it? _

_ I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I don’t know if I’ll see the end of the day tomorrow; I am knees deep in a situation that could have a spectacularly bad ending.  But when if I get home, I hope that we can sit down and have a long overdue talk. I told you you were the one who mattered the most, and the last 18 months have made me realize just how true my words were. _

_ I miss you, Molly.  More than I ever thought I could miss anyone.  Wait for me? _

_Yours._

 

Sherlock folded the paper and dug back into his bag, finding a small envelope and shoving the note into it, scrawling Molly’s name and address on it.  Sighing, he made his way out of the small room down the hall and quietly knocked on a door.

A small boy, no more than ten, stuck his head out of the doorway.  “Ah, Mister.” he said.

Sherlock handed the envelope to the boy, along with a few notes of currency.  “Make sure that makes it into the mail for me, would you?  I won’t be back after tomorrow.”

The boy’s eyes widened at the notes.  He was used to running errands for the mysterious stranger, but this was more money than he’d been offered before.

“Yes, mister.” he said, glancing down at the envelope.  “I’ll make sure it gets done.”

“Thank you,” said Sherlock, turning and walking back down the hall to the small room.  Wherever Sherlock went, he managed to find himself a homeless network.  He’d been able to trust the boy before, he had faith in him this time.

He got back into his room and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders again, leaning into the corner of the run-down room, staring out the window into the night sky, waiting for morning, waiting to see what the dawn would bring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, looks like this story is demanding to be told. Have chapter two. It's a bit short, and sad, but it's necessary for the rest of the story.

Winter in London was never like it was in the movies, or on telly. It was cold, and wet, and windy. How Molly wished there was a beautiful fluffy layer of snow to cover things and brighten up the cold, grey days. Instead, the streets were filled with dirty grey slush and the wind whipped around her, causing her scarf to unwrap from around her and her hair to threaten to fall out of the loose bun she’d put it in this morning.

She made her way down the street toward her flat, her hands shoved into oversized mittens. She’d had a long day at work and couldn’t wait to get home to her flat, a bubble bath, and probably more wine than was fully appropriate. She could almost feel the warmth. It had been a long, cold winter. The secret shame she felt for lying about Sherlock’s “death” had started to fade a little bit, but only because she’d slowly stepped away from anyone who knew him. She still saw Greg at the morgue occasionally, when work brought him there, but they didn’t talk about Sherlock anymore. She hadn’t seen John in months, although she’d heard from Greg he was working as a doctor again, and had met a lovely nurse at work he had gotten involved with. 

She’d lost the only real friends she’d started to make in London, by lying to them about the man she had been head over heels in love with. And now she was completely alone.

Shifting her bags up onto her shoulder again, she fumbled into her pocket for her keys. She hadn’t checked the mail in days, often opting to just run into the building and the promised warmth. 

Pulling one mitten off with her teeth, she shoved the mailbox key into the keyhole and gasped as the mail came tumbling out of the box. The wind chose that moment to gust again, sending the mail in all different directions.

Molly yelped and dropped her bag onto the somewhat dry doormat and spun around, gathering up bills and flyers. She was bent over scooping up a magazine when she heard a voice.

“Oops! Caught this for you!” 

She stood up and saw a man standing before her. Tall, thin, and with a scarf wrapped around her neck, she stumbled for a moment when she realized who he reminded her of. “Um, thank you!” she said, reaching for the envelopes he held out to her. “That’s very kind of you to help me. Do you see anything else?”

They both took a moment and looked around. “Nope, looks like that’s everything!” the man said, turning back to her. “My name’s Tom, by the way. Tom Loughton.”

Molly shoved all of the mail into one hand and stuck her hand out. “Molly, Molly Hooper. Thank you so much for helping me with the mail! I’d waited too long to check it and this WIND, it’s crazy.”

They stood staring at each other for a few more moments, the uncomfortable silence building before Tom finally smiled. “Look, this may be too forward, and if it is, I apologize, but would you like to go get a drink with me? I was just on my way home and you look like you could use a drink about as much as I do.”

Molly looked up at him for a moment, then smiled. “That sounds lovely. Do you mind if I just go inside and drop all this off, first?” she glanced down at the mail shoved into her arms.

“Of course, of course. I’ll just wait here, then.”

Molly opened her mouth to invite him in, but realized perhaps that might not be the best choice. “I’ll just be a moment, promise!” 

She fumbled with her keys again, unlocking the front door and making her way up to her third floor flat. She dumped the mail onto the table along with the bag of stuff she carried to and from work with her, and stole a glance at herself in the mirror by the front door. “Well, Molly,” she said to herself “Let’s see if this one’s a sociopath, shall we?”

She made her way back down to the door, stepping outside and smiling at Tom. “There’s a pub about a block down that has amazing chips,” she said, smiling. “Will that do?”

Tom nodded his agreement, and they turned and started walking toward the pub, neither of them noticing the small white envelope that had blown into the street, and was currently being run over by car after car, soaking up the mud and making it’s way further and further away from Molly Hooper’s flat.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to make it perfectly clear that I'm not implying Tom did anything wrong with the mail. I don't blame Tom for anything, I think he was an innocent bystander in the hurricane of drama that is Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. Tom fell in love with a woman who was in love with someone else, and if anything, I feel bad for him.

Sherlock’s return to London did not go as planned. John was not happy to see him. John wasn’t even at 221B! The woman he was dating was more interesting than his previous lovers, though, Sherlock had to give him that.

He’d visited Molly at Bart’s, showing up in the locker room as she got ready to leave work. He’d hoped that she’d invite him back to her flat, that she’d want to discuss the letter he’d sent her nine months previously, but she hadn’t mentioned it, and had seemed vaguely uncomfortable with having him there at all.

He’d made his excuses and left to ambush John at dinner.

And now here he was back in his flat, staring at the walls, wondering what he would do now. Mary had insisted she’d bring John around to forgiving him, and he suspected she’d be successful. John could never stay angry for long, no matter how quick he was to get angry in the first place.

Sherlock picked up his violin. “Welcome back to London, Sherlock,” he muttered under his breath before lifting the bow to play.

oOo

“Would you like to…”

“Have dinner?”

“...solve crimes?”

Sherlock’s day with Molly had started out on such a high note. She was an excellent partner in investigating. He even went out of his way to assure her that she wasn’t just a replacement for John. He felt better about the whole Molly Hooper situation than he had since he came home.

Until a glint of light off of her engagement ring had caught his eye.

Why hadn’t he noticed it before then? She’d obviously had it on all day. Obviously he hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t wanted to.

And so Molly had told him about Tom, and he’d told her he hoped she’d be very happy, and he’d placed a kiss on her cheek that felt like more of a goodbye than the note he’d scribbled on the envelope in her flat two years ago.

“Not all the men you fall for can be psychopaths.”  
oOo

 

John’s wedding had certainly been more interesting than most weddings Sherlock had been forced to attend. And then there was Magnusson.

oOo

“Did you miss me?”

Sherlock ran off of the plane, down the stairs and to the car. Throwing himself into the back of the car with Mycroft, he leaned forward to the driver, practically screaming Molly’s address at him. “NOW!” he bellowed.

Mycroft just silently raised an eyebrow as Sherlock collapsed into the seat next to him, drumming his fingers and staring out of the window. 

After a few moments, Mycroft spoke. “Molly Hooper?”

“Yes, Molly Hooper,” spat Sherlock, not turning to face his brother. “She helped fake my death. She’ll be his first target.”

“I understand that, brother dear. But I have people we could send. Shouldn’t we be investigating the source of the transmission?”

Sherlock swiveled his head around, glaring at Mycroft. “You can investigate whatever you want. I am to be taken to Molly Hooper, so that I can ensure that she is safe. Everything else can happen after that, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Sherlock, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed feelings for Doctor Hooper.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do keep up, Mycroft. I developed feelings for Doctor Hooper almost a year ago. She didn’t reciprocate them. She got engaged to Tom. But that doesn’t mean I want her to get hurt.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “A year ago? You were in contact with Molly Hooper while you were away?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “I mailed a letter. Anonymously. She’s never mentioned it, and when I got back, she was engaged to Tom. Her engagement ended and she still never brought it up, so I’m guessing that she’s finally decided she can do better than a narcissistic sociopath, and, if I’m being honest, she can.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Goldfish, all of them. I don’t understand you in the least.”

“What else is new?” spat Sherlock. “Can’t he drive any faster?”

Mycroft turned to his phone, firing off texts and instructions to people. Sherlock stared out the window again, ignoring him. They pulled up in front of Molly’s flat, and Sherlock was bounding out of the car before it had even come to a complete stop, forcing the downstairs door open and flying up the stairs to her flat. He pounded on the door, screaming out her name. 

Molly opened the door, a shell-shocked look on her face. “Did you see it?” she asked in a whisper, shaking in fear. “Will he come for me? You said he was dead, Sherlock! You said Mycroft’s people disposed of the body. You told me I was safe, Sherlock, and now it’s on the telly and oh god.”

 

She collapsed into his arms shaking in fear. Sherlock vaguely heard Mycroft’s car peeling away from the kerb, obviously off to continue searching for the source of the transmission. Sherlock gently moved Molly back into the flat, and closed the door behind them. Walking her over to the sofa, he sat her down.

“He is. They did. I don’t know what’s going on Molly, but it absolutely cannot be Moriarty. I saw his brains splattered all over the roof. He’s dead, he’s GOT to be. But someone wants us to think otherwise.”

Sherlock sat on the sofa next to her. “Mycroft is on it. I’ll stay here with you until we have more information. John and Mary have been taken somewhere safe, and Anthea sent someone to pick up Mrs. Hudson. All we can do is wait for Mycroft and his people to figure out what’s going on.”

Molly looked at Sherlock. “Shouldn’t you be helping him?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m right where I should be, keeping you safe. If whoever this is knows you helped fake my death, you’ll be their first target. Whoever it is, someone is incredibly upset with me.”

Molly nodded. “Can I make tea?”

“Yes.”

Molly got up and made her way into the kitchen. Sherlock watched her. She was right, though. He should be with Mycroft, helping get this sorted out. Mycroft needed him for leg work. While Mycroft had half the British government on his side, it was better to have Sherlock Holmes, as well.

But the thought of Molly being whisked away to some random safe house … that wouldn’t do. He would keep Molly safe and Mycroft would figure out what was going on. He needed to be here.

Molly returned with two cups of tea, silently handing one to Sherlock. Sherlock took it. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. 

“Molly, since we’re stuck here, there’s something I’ve been wondering about since I got back.”

Molly blew on her tea and sat down on the other end of the sofa. “Okay?”

“Did you meet Tom before or after my letter?”

Molly wrinkled her nose in confusion and stared at Sherlock. “What letter?”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock stared at Molly for a moment. “The letter I sent you. Last February.”

Molly shook her head. “I didn’t get a letter from you. Wait, February?”

Sherlock nodded. “I entrusted a member of my homeless network to mail it to you and I had been hiring him out to do small favors for weeks. I can’t believe he didn’t post it.”

“February….” said Molly, thinking. “Oh my god, Sherlock.”

“What?”

Molly set down her tea. “The day I met Tom. We met because I dropped my mail in the wind and it got scattered all over the place. Maybe that was when your letter came? And I lost it!”

Molly looked like she was about to cry. “I had been worrying so much about you, but Mycroft had insisted if anything...happened to you, he’d tell me. If I had received a letter from you I would have felt so much better, though.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Molly?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“It wasn’t just an ‘I’m okay’ letter. It was…” He stood, and paced around her living room, unable to look at her. This is why he never talked about feelings. It was nearly impossible to get the words out, to say what he needed to say in a way she’d understand.

“I missed you, Molly. I mean, I missed John, and Geoff, and Mrs. Hudson but...I missed you more. I realized while I was gone how much you meant to me and how wrong I’d been to keep you at arm’s length. I…” his voice faltered, and he stepped in front of her and dropped to his knees.

Reaching for her hands, he held them tight in his own as he stared at her. “I asked you to wait for me to come back. And then I came back and you were engaged to Tom and I thought I’d lost you and then your engagement ended but everything was all screwed up with the drugs, and Magnusson, and oh, Molly. Molly.”

He faltered there, and just stared up at her. She looked back at him, her mouth open, a look of astonishment on her face.

“I accepted Tom’s offer of a date because I was so lonely, Sherlock. I’d pulled away from all of our friends because I hated lying to them, and you’d been gone so long and I didn’t think you’d ever come back, and even if you did, you didn’t...you didn’t love me anyway.”

Molly tugged on Sherlock’s hands until he came up and sat next to her on the sofa. “You thought I’d rejected you.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“I’d never reject you, Sherlock. I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried. I know this,” she giggled. “I know this because I have tried. Tom broke off our engagement because he saw how I looked at you, he knew I’d never be over you. He knew he’d always been the one I settled for because I couldn’t have Sherlock Holmes. I should have broken it off with him the day you came back, because I knew in my heart he’d always be who I settled for.”

Sherlock’s phone took that opportunity to ring. Sherlock fished it out of his pocket. “Mycroft,” he said, answering. “Please give me good news. Okay. Yes. Are you certain? Okay. Okay. Yes. No, I’ll find my way home. Bye.”

Sherlock smiled over at Molly. “It was a ‘fan’ of Moriarty’s, although one without half his brains. They were able to trace the source of the transmission and arrest him in under an hour.”

Molly took a deep breath. “Oh, thank goodness.”

“Now,” said Sherlock, reaching over to place a hand over one of Molly’s, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing her skin. “What was that about not rejecting me?”

“There’s never been a day in my life since we met that I didn’t love you, Sherlock Holmes. If you’ll still have me, I’d love to see if we could make this work.”

Sherlock leaned over, smiling at Molly. “Me too,” he said, just before depositing a soft, chaste kiss on her lips. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have just made this a longer one-shot, but I wasn't thinking ahead too much. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
